


anyway the thing is, what i really mean

by orphan_account



Category: Free!
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, almost confession, haru-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ It doesn’t take long for him to reach Makoto’s front door. It never has. ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	anyway the thing is, what i really mean

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Elton John, "Your Song".

On Saturday, Haru slips through the door of his quiet house and into the cold blue morning. It snowed last night, large white flakes drifting soundlessly into the sleeping world of Iwatobi. The sun is sleepy, too, cold and grey and unwilling to wake up and warm the day.

Haru doesn’t wear anything but his hoodie, and his jammers, and his cheeks redden in the cold. He stands there watching for the sky to lighten, for the morning to brush aside its pale purple nighttime curtains, and then he puts on his running shoes and moves. There isn’t any wind, there isn’t any noise except for the soft smearing noises of his shoes against fresh snow, and maybe the just-as-soft  _fuu_  of his breath - and maybe the thunderingly silent  _pound-pound-pound_  of his heart.

He is walking, jogging, running towards Makoto’s house, and he’s never doubted that he would be welcome before, but it is before six in the morning, and Makoto doesn’t wake up very well.

There’s a key in his hand, two keys, really - both of them kind of faded, brassy, a brass-tinted gold, pressing cold and sharp into his palm. For as long as he can remember, the key to his house, and the key to Makoto’s house are strung on the same ring. Haru doesn’t put it on a chain, or attach anything else to it. That’s more Nagisa’s thing, and Haru remembers that Nagisa has some otherworldly number of cute things attached to his keychain. -- For him, that's too much (effort, trouble, clutter, distraction).

It doesn’t take long for him to reach Makoto’s front door. It never has.

Makoto has something to do today: some sort of club-captain related orientation thing, an all-day event that had Haru’s neutral expression twisting into one of distaste when he was told about it. It’ll probably be the sort of event that freezes a polite smile onto Makoto’s face, and sticks strangely-phrased “thank you”s and “I look forward to stopping by”s and other words that don’t make any sense, given how much time Makoto focuses on the swim club.

It’s freezing outside, snow still fresh, muting all other sounds in the world, so Haru slips the key in and twists and opens the door. Makoto’s house is always warm and smells good, smells like a family that is clean and happy, smells sweet, and even though Haru doesn’t eat a lot of sweet things, he likes the scent of warmth and honey and spices, and browns and oranges. (It's a house filled with the sort of toasted colors that makes anyone feel at home.) He pauses to take off his shoes in the doorway, and rubs his hands together on the way up the stairs so that they won’t be as cold.

Makoto’s door is partially open, and he sees his friend asleep in bed, one arm thrown off to the side, the other one folded at the elbow so that his hand can span over his stomach. The covers have moved during the night, slipping off where they must have been drawn up to his chin, and twisted, so that only a corner is really covering Makoto’s body. It doesn’t matter; the room is warm, and Makoto’s bed is warm, too, especially where it dips in around his tall frame.

Haru tugs the covers back over the bed properly and then slides in under them, next to Makoto, tucks his body comfortably around the open arm, and presses his cheek against the warm palm. He hopes he does this without waking Makoto up, but instead, he hears the sleepy voice, feels Makoto’s chest fill up with air.

“H…aru?”

Haru doesn’t turn around to face Makoto. He feels the warm skin against his still-cold body and he shivers. He wants to say - “I like you, Makoto.” But he thinks it might be weird, when Makoto can’t see his expression. (Some things have to be done properly, in school uniform or maybe in swimming trunks, when the sun is shining properly.)

Instead, he says, “It’s okay, sleep.”

Makoto shifts to drape his other arm over Haru, too, and Haru feels warmed all over. Makoto’s sleepy smile presses itself gently into his hair, and Haru wonders why he ever doubted if he would be welcome here.


End file.
